


Burn the Heart Out of You (with Sympathy)

by aeruh



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kingkiller University setting, Kingkiller references, Teenage Moriarty, Teenage Sherlock, Teenlock, sherlock crossover, teenage John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3909931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeruh/pseuds/aeruh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, a sympathist studying at the University, and his friend the Medica student John Watson explore the Underthing to find the reason behind missing University students. </p><p>There they encounter Jim Moriarty for the first time, another fellow University student with dark intentions... And hints of something big that's going to happen.</p><p>A sort of a prequel to my other one-shot, "Friends (and Grams) Protect People"</p><p>Set in the Kingkiller/Four Corners universe </p><p>(Some mild language used)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn the Heart Out of You (with Sympathy)

John Watson cursed as he lost his footing, tripping over another pipe that rose suddenly from the ground. The scuffled sounds and his voice both echoed in the dark chamber, along with the dull thud of the teenage boy's body hitting the floor. 

"Careful!" Sherlock Holmes snapped lowly. The sympathy lamp clutched in his pale hand cast light on the fallen friend by his side, making John seem to glow an unnatural blue. 

"Thanks so much for that," John replied sarcastically, rising to his feet and brushing dirt off of his cloak. "Your advice, I mean. Very helpful and all." 

The sympathist ignored the other's biting tone, scowling at the shorter teenager. "And keep your voice low," Sherlock continued, as though John had never spoken. 

His cloak apparently satisfactory, John straightened his belt, making sure the dagger Sherlock insisted he bring was still tucked safely in the leather. The El'the wouldn't say exactly _why_ it was important he had it, but after spending nearly two spans with him it was engraved in John's mind that when Sherlock Holmes told you to do something, it was for a reason and you had better listen... And Tehlu help you if you don't.

Which was why, even though at the moment countless other possibilities were more tempting to do (many of which would probably end up with one, if not both, of them in the Medica) John did as he was told. 

"Tell me," John said quietly, "Why are we here again, instead of studying for admissions? And there's no one else in here, you know. We don't have to be so silent."

A huff of breath was all John got in reply. Sherlock continued on ahead of him, looking back and fourth, using the sympathy lamp to guide him; a hue of blue was thrown on the walls around them, swaying with every careful step Sherlock took. "Another University student had gone missing last night. That makes four total so far. Imre is a busy town, but not so much that so many kidnappings are unnoticeable. They can't be found anywhere, and the city is hardly raising a hand to help. Mycroft 'borrowed' some books from the Archives for me--"

"I didn't think you could take books from--"

"You can't," Sherlock interrupted, irritated at being cut off. "But Mycroft has connections. Anyway, as I was saying, the books were all records the Chronicler got from his search for Kvothe--"

"The Kingkiller?"

"Obviously!" The taller boy hissed. "Now will you let me finish? Don't say anything. Don't even think." 

John rolled his eyes, thought about punching his friend in the face, but remained quiet as Sherlock had demanded. When silence greeted the one bearing the sympathy lamp, Sherlock exhaled through his nose before he went on. 

"The records revealed passages all throughout the University, below the ground, called the Underthing. Miles and miles of tunnels that nobody knows about--unless they read the records, of course. But the books hadn't been opened in quite some time. If anyone wanted a hiding place for kidnapped students, and they knew about this place, logic would lead them here."

"And you just decided to drag me here _in the middle of the night,_ with admissions starting tomorrow to have a look-see?" the Medica student demanded finally, deeming it safe to speak again.

As John was talking, Sherlock stepped out of the passage, and stood in the opening, lifting the lamp higher above his head to cast more light about the place. John remained by his side, gaping at the room they had just entered. The walls were full of pipes, much like the ones that were so determined to trip John. They ran along the walls, some rusted, and water that dripped from them and the drain gates far above collected in a large pool in the center of the room. 

Taking shuffling steps, John peered over the edge of the pool. It was huge and deep; he couldn't even see the bottom. With the lack of light it looked like an artificial lake of ink, shining dully by the sympathy lamp and the faint sun through drain gates. 

"What is this place?"

Before Sherlock could answer, an unfamiliar voice piped up, sounding from the opposite end of the room where the light of the lamp couldn't reach. 

"Some of the few people who know about these passages call it the Twelve. But depending on the light let through from the gates, it's also known as _the Gray Twelve, the Silver Twelve,_ or _the Yellow Twelve."_ Another lamp was lit, this one shining yellow to reveal a young man across the room. "Isn't that right, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock stiffened. "Jim Moriarty, I presume." His voice was cold. 

The male apparently named Jim grinned, and walked around the edge of the pool to come closer. "Absolutely correct," he replied, and John noted an accent he couldn't quite place. "But then, you always are, aren't you?"

Sherlock didn't answer. "One of the top Sympathy students in the University. Son of a councilman in Imre. Wealthy. It's no wonder the city didn't do a thing to search for those students, if they're getting silver talents pressed into their hands under the table... The students you kidnapped, I believe," he accused. "Why did you take them? Where are they?"

Setting his yellow lamp on the floor, Moriarty rubbed his hands together with a delighted laugh. If John hadn't known any better, he might have thought they were meeting for the first time in the Eolian, over a few jugs of mead and some fine music. "Oh, isn't this just _wonderful?_ You've already gotten me all figured out, haven't you, Master Holmes?" 

Moriarty's lips curled in a pleased grin, and John was reminded of those poisonous flowers he made antidotes for in the Medica; pretty and harmless-looking, but not afraid to kill a person with ease. While the happy student's attention was focused on his friend, John made a move for the dagger under his cloak, gripping its handle. There was something about this stranger, something John didn't like at all. Suddenly he was glad Sherlock told him to bring the blade.

But Moriarty was sharper than he looked. In almost no time at all, the chipper façade was gone and replaced with a cold, frightening glare...aimed directly at John himself. 

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he drawled. "Hiding weapons? Now that's hardly fair, is it? Come on, show it to me." 

John's grip tightened on the handle of the steel, but Sherlock cast him a look; a shake of the head, just barely, and John took a deep breath, pulling the dagger out for all to see. 

Despite the weapon drawn in John's hand, Moriarty closed the last distance of space between them, coming to a stop only a few feet away. Up close, John could see he was short (though still taller than himself) with neat, combed back black locks, just the faintest traces of facial hair, and brown eyes. "I thought you would have more honor than that, Johnny," he sighed. "If you're not careful, you might end up getting yourself into trouble... On accident, of course." 

Sherlock was growing impatient with his lack of answers. _"Why did you take them?"_ he repeated. 

As though he had forgotten Sherlock's presence, Moriarty smiled again and tilted his head. 

"For important reasons, to be sure," Moriarty assured him. "Far more important than you could ever imagine, I'm afraid. They're needed for something. Something big."

From what John could see, Sherlock was frustrated with Moriarty's abstract answers. "Where are they?"

"Not in the Underthing, if that's what you thought. At least, not anymore. They're long gone by now." Another sickly-sweet smile. "I'm sorry; were you hoping to save them? Perhaps you thought you could get a better reputation in Imre: The Brilliant University Sympathist who Saved Four, perhaps? Rather than being an outcast and called a changeling Fae for your talents."

If Moriarty was hoping to get a reaction, he was bitterly disappointed; Sherlock remained blank and cold as a Waystone, and would not be deterred. "You kidnapped the students; you had kept them in here ever since you took the first one, I imagine. For whatever reason, they're needed--now, apparently, because they're gone. And you didn't just move them to a new hiding place, because there couldn't be a better location anywhere in Imre, and you can't risk them being found, can you? 

"No... You can't. That means there is no reason left for you to be here; judging from the quality of your clothing, you enjoy having wealth, and like showing it even more. You can't possibly find pleasure in crawling on your hands and knees through a damp, dirty, cramped place such as the Underthing. So that means there is still a cause for you to stay behind. What is it?"

Moriarty showed no surprise to Sherlock's quick deductions. Instead he simply sighed, reaching out to run a hand lightly over the glass surface of the sympathy lamp in Sherlock's grasp. 

"A blue light. Not very common in sympathy lamps," he mused. "Do you know the stories of blue flames, Sherlock Holmes?" 

"I don't believe in children's stories or Fae tales," Sherlock practically spat.

"That's a shame," Moriarty sighed. "There's power in believing. You, a sympathist, should know that. I know I do. It's the basis of sympathy, after all." He reached into a pocket of his trousers, revealing a stone that fit in the palm of his hand. "If you believe hard enough, if you have the mind to will it... Then you can make one object react as though it were another. Like this rock in my hand, for example. It may be different than one in the cobblestone wall, but with enough will and the right binding, then... Well, what would happen if I threw it?"

While John stood in confusion, trying to understand what Moriarty was leading to, a light of understanding shone in Sherlock's clear blue eyes. The curly-haired El'the began to move then, shouting John's name. As lost as John was, he knew enough from Sherlock's tone that something was going to happen, and it was going to be bad.

Looking back on it later, during a night out with Greg and the others, John would realize that it all happened in only a matter of seconds. It really was John's quick reflexes that probably saved him, though when it was all going on it seemed to slow down at an impossible rate.

The rock in Moriarty's hand was thrown into the pool of water that lay beside them. The action was simple enough, but if John was paying attention he would have noticed the extra force put into it that was not normally necessary for tossing a simple rock. John wasn't a sympathist, but he knew enough to understand the basics, even if he couldn't do it himself. Moriarty had done something more than just throw the palm-sized rock. 

From the corner of his eye, John caught Sherlock ducking down, and John barely stepped back in time. 

A piece of cobblestone in the wall had loosened itself, and was flung as though by magic just as Moriarty's rock had. The angle it was at, unfortunately, meant that the thing was on a path straight for him. John cursed (he didn't actually remember what it was he said exactly, but he was sure it was a curse) and moved, his right foot stepping back to avoid getting hit by the flying cobblestone. The action saved him for the most part, but in the end he found himself sprawled on the ground anyway, with a pain in his left knee that he knew was not supposed to be there. 

The rock had collided with his knee, successfully managing to dislocate the cap before falling to the ground, never making it into the pool. John sat up, cursing some more and a bit dazed, with a hand on his knee. His practice in the Medica was able to help him realize almost immediately that this was a bit not good. 

It all happened in only a matter of seconds. Sherlock wasted no time to swipe up the dagger John had dropped immediately after it was all over, and pointed it at Moriarty, who stood there waiting for one of them to do something. 

Sherlock aimed the tip of the steel in his hand at Moriarty's chest. "What do you have planned?" He yelled. John fancied he sounded furious.

"But I've already given you a hint," Moriarty frowned. "It's no fun having to spell it all out, you know. _Think,_ Sherly; I know you're good at that. _Blue flames._ You said you were never one to believe in the Fae. I suggest you start." 

"And what do the missing students have to do with demons?" The dagger never wavered.

"Those students should be the least of your concerns now. The Chandrian are coming, Sherlock, and I can't let you get in my way." Moriarty's voice was suddenly deadly, all the childishness gone from his tone. "If you do, I will burn you. _I will burn the heart out of you,_ starting with your little loyal friend here." He waved a hand in John's direction, where he still sat in a dazed and pained heap on the floor. "I just thought I'd give you a little warning." 

As he turned to walk away and collected his own lamp, the man began to hum. As John tried to get himself to his feet, he recognized the tune from his childhood in Tarbean. The sound made his blood run cold. 

_When the hearthfire turns to blue, what to do? What to do?_  
_Run outside. Run and hide._  
_When his eyes are black as crow? Where to go? Where to go?_  
_Near and far. Here they are._  
_See a man without a face? Move like ghosts from place to place._  
_What's their plan? What's their plan?_  
_Chandrian. Chandrian._

_When your bright sword turns to rust? Who to trust? Who to trust?_  
_Stand alone. Standing stone._  
_See a woman pale as snow? Silent come and silent go._ _What's their plan? What's their plan?_ _Chandrian. Chandrian._

Once Moriarty was out of sight, Sherlock let his hand drop, and the dagger fell with a clatter to the ground. John managed to hobble pitifully to the wall before his leg gave out.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock said suddenly, pacing, running a hand through his hair. "Are you alright?"

"I... Yeah, I'm fine." It was a lie; John pressed a hand to his knee and but back a groan. It hurt terribly, and he was already predicting how long it would take to use a brace to heal.

After a little more halfhearted conversation, Sherlock helped John to his feet and they slowly made their way out above ground. John was tired and hurting, and never wanted to set foot in the Underthing again. The parting words Moriarty left them with did little to help, and John felt a strong sense of apprehension in the pit of his stomach. 

_I'm sure it's going to drive Sherlock absolutely mad,_ he thought, mirthless. And then his next thought was, _Admissions tomorrow are going to be hell._

**Author's Note:**

> ...This ended up being much longer than I thought. 
> 
> Sort of a twist to the pool scene in the Great Game in Sherlock, s1 ep3.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Burn the Heart Out of You (with Sympathy) [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6622924) by [codeswitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/codeswitch/pseuds/codeswitch)




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